


The Roadtrip

by marnies



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A trigger warning if you don't like mentions of bad parenting but it's not that bad, Alternate Universe - High School, Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gen, High School, Humor, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Running Away, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Summer, Underage Drinking, kids being dumbasses, minor teen angst, roadtrip au, sweethearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marnies/pseuds/marnies
Summary: In the Summer of 1963, Bill Denbrough takes a drive.





	1. I - Rusty

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i had this idea and outlined it the night of. my friend aj who is literally god said it was good, so here i am posting it! not certain of how many chapters it will be yet, but chapter two is already underway.

Bill Denbrough had wanted his driver's license ever since he’d first found out that one needed a license if they wanted to legally drive a motorized vehicle. That had been around the time he’d turned nine years old. He’d begun practicing at around thirteen. The day he’d turned sixteen, Bill had aced his exam on the first try, and earned his ticket to freedom.  
   “We can’t stay out later than ten o’clock,” Eddie had said that evening. To celebrate Bill’s birthday and his fresh-earned freedom, his dad had let him take the Losers Club out for a drive. Bill had been shaking with excitement. “That’s my curfew. My mom’ll have a cow.”  
   Bill didn’t remember whether or not they had missed Eddie’s curfew. He also couldn’t remember if his mom had had a cow; Mrs. K had so many cows those days, it was hard to keep track. He did remember Stan and Ben stuffing themselves in the front seats before anyone else could. He remembered Richie sitting on Mike’s lap and Beverly sitting on Eddie’s. Eddie had pretended to hack and wheeze under her weight, before actually losing his breath and needing his inhaler. They’d driven for hours around town, soaking in freedom and the near-spring sunlight that was just hot enough to blind you, but not nearly hot enough to warrant taking off a jacket. He’d rolled the windows down, letting Mike and Richie scream the lyrics to some song on the radio. He hadn’t even realized when the sun had set.  
   “We should head back; Eddie’s gotta be home on time,” Ben had said.  
   They’d been stopped at a four-way intersection at the edge of Derry; a hard right turn would bring them around a route to the broad area of suburbs (which were only really suburbs by Derry standards, Bill thought) where Bill, Eddie, Richie, and Stan all lived. A left turn brought them to a curve leading to the next town over. The next town over was just as boring as Derry (Keep telling yourself that, Bill had thought. Maybe you’ll start believing it.). But that didn’t stop him from flipping on his turn signal--the blinker flashed on his left.  
   “Bill, what are you doing?”  
   “Wrong way, Bill.”  
   “Home’s that way!”  
   Bill remembered blood rushing to his face. He’d mumbled something about zoning out, switched his signal, and lugged his dad’s rustbucket back home. He’d gone to bed with a head full of thoughts.  
   Bill had encountered that intersection a thousand times since his sixteenth birthday, and every time brought the same urge to switch on his left turn signal. Often he found himself driving there for no reason, only to turn right and circle back home again. Every time he went there in his dad’s old car, his left finger was just itchy. But, every time, it was his dad’s car. He couldn’t run away with it.  
   At least, until the summer of 1963.  
   The first week of vacation between Bill’s junior and senior year, Bill had finally earned enough money as a dishwasher to buy himself a car. Granted, she wasn’t the finest--she was orangy-brown, with cloth seats, and a bit of a grandpa car, if you asked Richie, who’d been the first to ride in the passenger’s seat after Bill had gotten her. Bill named her Rusty, just as he’d named Silver.  
   In those first few weeks of summer, Rusty had become a clubhouse of sorts (or at least, the mature, seventeen-year-old version of a clubhouse) and he left the backseat windows open most days in case the Losers wanted to hang out. She was parked on the road outside his house, not able to fit in the driveway. Bill knew that Eddie liked to come there when Mrs. K got too overbearing, and Bev and Richie too, if they wanted a smoke. Stan had never explicitly said so, but Bill thought he liked to come down to Rusty when he needed some chaos--everything about Stan was organized, lined up, and meticulously ironed--in Rusty, there was nothing to be sorted. Not that he could read Stan’s mind.  
   Bill lost his job three weeks after getting Rusty. He’d been late to work a few days in a row, and just like that, his dishwashing career was over. He trudged home with his tail between his legs. Please don’t let mom be home, he prayed. Please don’t let dad be home… Please, please, please, please, please…  
   They were both in the kitchen.  
   “What are you doing back so early, Bill? I thought you had work.” His father stood up.  
   “I-I, um…” Maybe they’d be forgiving. After all, they hadn’t even thought he’d be able to get a job in the first place. And, not to mention, Bill had bought himself a car--he knew his dad was enthused about that. He decided to be optimistic. “I got f-fired.”  
   Mom dropped her spoon, which she’d been using to stir a pot of soup. Dad shut the book he’d been reading.   
   “Care to tell why you got yourself fired?” Dad had the same passive, growing anger in his eyes that seemed to surface often as of late. Bill’s heart sank to his feet.  
   “I was late,” Bill confided, less optimistic. “It-it’s no big deal. I’ll get a new j-job…”  
   “You’ll get a new job?” He sauntered over, calmly taking the book in his hands. Bill couldn’t help but fidget at the sight of that book. It was hardcover. “Like it didn’t take you a year to get your first job, as a goddamn dishwasher?”  
   “Honey…” Bill’s mother warned. Mr. Denbrough had never been outright violent to Bill, but ever since Georgie, something in him had changed. Bill was afraid of him.  
   He wasn’t fazed. “What are you going to do next, work at an ice cream parlor? Or why not go document birds of all things, with that friend of yours? You know, Bill, I swear, ever since your brother, you’ve lost all sense of dignity!”  
   Bill cowered, then fumed. He was a teenager, he lost his minimum wage job, and his dad wasn’t only attacking Bill, not only Stan, but _Georgie?_ The man towered over him, and Bill realized he’d been pushed into the corner of the room. His mom watched uneasily. Not knowing what else to do, he spat in his father’s face.  
   “I wuh-worked my ass off for you!” he found himself screaming. He grabbed the book out of his stunned father’s hands. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to learn some respect! Fuh-fuh-f-f-f…” A beat passed, then two. “Fuck you!”  
   Bill didn’t realize that he still had the book in his hands until then. He slammed it against the man’s chest, whirled around, and stormed to his room. He thought his mom called after him, but blood roared too loudly in his ears to hear. The door slammed with a bang.  
   Hot tears made their presence known, pouring out from where they’d been hiding since he’d walked in. Bill hated his father--maybe that was cliche, maybe he was just a kid with too much angst--but he genuinely, wholeheartedly, hated Zack Denbrough with every ounce of his being. For a moment, he raged--kicking over a chair, scuffing up the rug, and swiping a summer essay in progress off of his desk, like a toddler having a temper-tantrum. Bill collapsed on his bed (the same bed he’d napped in while Georgie was out there, falling down the sewer because of him) and cried.  
   He wasn’t sure how long he’d laid there. He fell asleep at some point, either from anger or tears, and when he woke up again his face felt dry and snotty. The house was quiet, now that the roaring in his ears and his parents shouting at each other downstairs had died down. He thought about going to clean his face in the sink, then thought better of it, opening the window to let a warm breeze wash his skin instead. Rusty slept outside, windows down.  
   His eyes drifted to his desk. On the side of it that he hadn’t destroyed, lay a waxed replica of the _S.S Georgie._  
_(“...ever since Georgie)_  
   Anger flared in his chest, but was soon replaced by sadness, flooding his lungs like water; he was bloated with it, but couldn’t bring himself to cry. Instead, Bill’s eyes drifted to his keys, resting next to the boat. They waited for him.  
   The house felt like a dormant volcano, ready to go off any minute, and Bill realized what he had to do. He calmly pocketed the keys.  
   In the summer of 1963, Bill Denbrough ran away from home and did not look back.


	2. II - Stanley Uris Takes a Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bill takes a left turn, and he isn't alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hough this whole thing is so silly thanks for reading

   The pounding in his ears was back, but this time it felt good.

   Bill drove with the windows down, radio blaring, and a huge, dumb grin plastered on his face. He wanted to laugh, cry, scream, to breathe in solitude for the first time in his fucking life, just because he could--so he did. At 12:41 in the morning, Bill drove fifteen miles over the speed limit and sobbed. The best part about Rusty, he decided, was privacy--Bill looked like an idiot, but no one was waiting to break down his door anymore. Winchester Avenue, with its twenty-mile speed limit and “watch for children” signs couldn’t touch him. He was alone.

   Bill was, in fact, so absorbed in the thrill of solitude that he nearly crashed the car when someone shouted from the backseat. That was the first surprise.

   He slammed the breaks in the middle of the road, fleetingly thankful that no one else was around. Whirling around, Bill thought, Fuck; this is how I die. Not even out of town yet, and I’m going to get robbed, or raped, or killed for no reason. There’s probably a gun to my head right now. Fuck me. Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt, please don’t…

   He lifted his fists.

   Instead of a robber, rapist, or murderer, Bill’s second surprise of the day was to find Stan Uris in his backseat, blinking sleepiness out of his eyes.

   “Huh,” Bill remarked rather dumbly. “F-fuck.”

   “Bill? What the hell are you doing at…” he squinted at his polished watch. “12:53 in the morning?”

   A better question came to mind. “Wh-what the hell are you doing in my c-car at… w-w-what time did you say it was?”

   “12:53, but--”

   “12:53 in the m-m-morning?”

   Stan looked sheepish. “I took a nap in your backseat at…” he furrowed his brow as if remembering something. “Seven o’clock? Whoops.”

   Bill let out a huge breath. Of course this would happen. It was why he kept the windows down after all, wasn’t it? Bill decided one last stop to Stan’s house wouldn’t hurt. If he was being honest, what the rest of the club would make of his disappearance he hadn’t even considered--he’d been too caught up in the thrill of getting away. He was going to miss them if he went through with it. If he went and stayed gone like he planned. Bill was going to miss them (Stan) a lot.

   He made a u-turn without another word.

   “Bill, were you…” Stan trailed off as if he wasn’t sure what Bill was doing. He knew. The whole club knew it was only a matter of time. Stan just didn’t want to admit it. “Were you running away?”

   Bill didn’t answer. He stopped in front of Stan’s house, not bothering with the driveway or with pulling over. The streets were as empty as his little brother’s bedroom.

   “Here’s y-your st-s-stop.”

   “Answer the question.”

   Most of the time, Stan was passive--maybe passive wasn’t quite the right word because he did carry a sense of quiet stubbornness--but there were always times when he got like this. Stan’s no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway voice was reserved only for the most specialized occasions and never failed to strike fear into the hearts of men. Even Richie, who couldn’t be held back from anything, never fucked with that tone. It seemed unfair for him to use it now.

   “Y-yes. Now, I’ll see you later.”

   Except he wasn’t. Not if Bill went through with this, which, at the moment, he had every intention of doing. Stan chewed his lip. Thirty seconds passed and Bill was about to speak up and push him out the door when Stan said:

   “Get out of the car. Come inside with me.”

   “Stan, y-you’re not changing my--”

   “Shut up, Bill.”

   Bill continued to protest, even as Stan grabbed him by the arm, tugged with an unreasonable amount of strength, and dragged him into the house. He shut up as soon as they were inside. Stan led him through the house, putting a finger to his lips as they tiptoed past his parents’ room--they slept with the door open. Stan grabbed his hand while they cleared the stairs, two at a time. He only stopped in front of a hallway cabinet, right outside what Bill knew to be Stan’s bedroom.

   “Grab as much as you can carry,” he said, and ducked into his room.

   Bill opened the cabinet, bewildered, to find blankets and pillows. He thought about following Stan around the corner to find out what he was doing but then thought better of it--if he was going to sleep in the car for a while, he might as well stock up. Actually, come to think of it, he was going to need food, too. And clothes. Maybe it was a good thing Stan had been in the backseat.

   A moment later, Stan emerged with an armful of clothes and a spare toothbrush. He motioned for Bill to get on with it and follow him back downstairs. Likewise, they broke into the cupboard and took what they could carry, which was a box of granola bars and some juice. Anxiety palpable, Stan rushed him out the door.

   Once the door was safely closed and the house lights safely shut off, Stan collapsed against the front door, chewing his lip. Bill noticed Stan do that while he studied, or made a tough decision. He was always chewing--on his lip, his cheek, his pencil, or his fingers, even though he always complained about having uneven nails. At that moment, Bill realized how much he was going to miss Stan.

   “Well…” his voice came out small. “I’ll-I’ll see you t-then.”

   He wouldn’t though.

   “You won’t, though,” Stan said. “And knowing you you’re probably going to get yourself arrested or killed.”

   Bill was about to protest but realized Stan was right. He had, after all, just tried to run away forever with nothing but the clothes off his back, and hadn’t even checked the backseat before he started driving.

   “W-well, I guess not. But--”

   “But not if I come with you.”

   That was Bill’s third surprise of the day: Stan Uris proposing on his own free will to break his routine and run away with Bill to God-knew-where for God-knew-how-long. Stan wasn't prepared. Neither was Bill. Maybe that was how it had to happen.

   Bill didn’t need to say a word--his hands and lips shook so much, he probably wouldn’t be able to anyway--he just held the car door open while Stan situated their armfuls of junk in the backseat. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed until he caught a glance at Stan’s watch to find that it was almost five o’clock. They needed to hurry.

   Stan bit his nails. Bill thought about recommending a brand of chewing gum, then thought better of it.

   Bill turned up the radio. Stan’s piggy bank jingled almost on- beat from its seat in the back.

   The sun made its first appearance of the morning when Bill, Stan, and Rusty found their way to the intersection between home and far, far away. Its glow turned the cars orange coat to bronze and Stanley’s dirty-blonde curls to bright golden (not that Bill would have noticed). His left hand itched once again; this time, Bill scratched.

   Bill Denbrough may have run away that morning from his house, parents, and his hometown. But Bill Denbrough did not leave home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter III - Gas Stop  
> In which Rusty gets a scratch, and so does Stan.  
> Hey, get a load of [my Tumblr.](https://stanwey-uwis.tumblr.com)


	3. III - Gas Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rusty gets a scratch, and so does Stan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long! Real busy over here, y'know? Summary might have been misleading :-/

   For the next week, Bill wore Stan’s sweaters. They smelled like toothpaste and fabric softener.

   AC/DC blared on the radio, while Bill sped with the windows down and air conditioning on. The sky was clear, with no mountains or cities to blot it out, but it looked as if impending clouds would settle in by evening; the air had that grey, heavy moisture that settled in your throat and sinuses and warned of rain soon to come. Bill had never liked that fogginess, but the music and wind drowned it out easily. Stan chewed his nails.

   “She was the best damn woman that I’d ever seen!” Bill screamed along. “She had the sightless eyes, tellin’ me no--”

   “Will you turn that down?”

   Stan had one hand to his temple and the other wrapped around his ribs, as if he were afraid someone would stick a spear under them. Bill lowered the volume.

   “I mean the air conditioning. Too cold.” He shouted, still, over the wind and blasting air. Bill complied, although grumbling, and turned it down. Not off--just low enough so that Stan couldn’t say another word about it. He didn’t. Bill reached to turn the music back up again, but Stan put a hand on his.

   “Don’t.”

   Bill didn’t.

   “And could you roll that window--”   
   “Alright, if you’re so puh-picky, why don’t you f-f-fucking drive?”

   Stan didn’t reply, only put his nail back between his teeth and stared out the open window. A pang of guilt struck Bill--Stan had been snappy and jittery all week, and wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for him. He waved that that thought away, ensuring himself that if Stan hadn’t wanted to come, he wouldn’t have. 

   Except he would have. And he did.

   “Can we stop for coffee pretty soon, though?”

   Bill glanced at the empty coffee cups littered around Stan’s feet. He’d had--what--three cups that morning already? Bill was about to answer ‘no, we can’t stop,’ but he caught a glance at the gas tank. They’d have to stop within the hour anyway. And besides, Bill ate the last granola bar two hours ago, and it was only a matter of time before they got hungry. Not to mention Stan refused to wear the same clothes twice in a row--they only had a few pairs of pants and shirts between them. Bill reached behind the seat and put the piggy bank on Stan’s lap.

   “L-l-long as you clear that sh-shit off the floor,” he said instead. “An-and we need to pick up more food, too. And clean these clothes. P-p-pit stop, I guess.”

   “Fine by me.” Stan glared out the window like he was trying to burn a hole through it. He rubbed the back of his neck--it must have been sore from sleeping sitting up for the past week. Bill felt a stab of guilt for taking the only pillow. He then shook it off by remembering how Stan had been wasting all their money on coffee that week instead of buying his own pillow. He sounded like a snappy eight-year-old who needed a nap. He probably did.

   “You guh-go in and grab some f-food,” Bill said once they’d stopped. “And I’ll f-fill ‘er up. We can wuh-w-worry about a laundromat later.”

   Stan didn’t answer before he slammed the door shut and stormed inside, presumably with all their cash.

   Stan returned a second later to retrieve all their cash.

   Bill watched in silence as Stan said something to the clerk and went straight to the coffee machine.  _ It’s probably not even good coffee,  _ Bill thought.  _ We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, and he’s spending our good money on caffeinated gas station slime.  _ Stan went out of Bill’s line of sight then, vanishing behind the window, and Bill became aware of the death glare he had trained on the store. The clerk was giving him a funny look. He snapped his head away.

   After setting Rusty up with a pump, Bill followed Stan into the minimart. He found him glaring a hole through a shelf of corn chips. He looked like a strung-out single father, stressed beyond his wits, fighting an old lady in a staring contest over the last bag of frozen peas for his children. Maybe that was an odd comparison, but Bill had seen the same thing many-a-time doing grocery shopping for his parents, and he’d know that look anywhere. Stan didn’t greet Bill.

   Bill’s eyes drifted to the coolers across from them, and a malicious idea occurred. 

   He couldn’t make Stan stop wanting to go home. But maybe he could help with stress.

   “G-g-go park the c-har, Stan,” he said. “I’ll take care of sn-s-snacks.”

   Stan went with only a look. Bill watched him go. 

   He stocked up on dinners for the week--chocolate, protein bars, crackers, mints, energy drinks, cookies, juice boxes, and raisins. After careful consideration, he tossed back the mints, juice, raisins, and energy drinks in exchange for a jug of water they could refill. He still held almost every gluten item in the market. Along with their weekly nutrition, Bill slunk into the back cooler and grabbed himself two cases of beer.

   He dug through his wallet and Stan’s (they’d mutually decided that cash was community property between them--or, at least, Stan had mumbled an “mmhmm” at Bill’s proposal the other night, while he’d been half-asleep in the passenger’s seat, and Bill had decided that was good enough consent) and realized they were short on cash. Way short on cash. They had 10 dollars between the two of them. And Bill wasn’t about to put any of this shit away in a million years. They wouldn’t find it anywhere else that cheap again, and they still needed laundromat money.   
   He glanced outside. Stan had parked with the engine running. He sat in the driver’s seat, facing outward.

   It was a terrible idea--even worse than the beer. They’d get caught, get arrested, and if they didn’t end up in jail, they’d end up back home, where they’d both be even more miserable than they were when they left. But still, the car sat there, right outside the open door, idling.

   Bill hugged his armful of loot and ran.

   There were already shouts from inside when he clambered into the passenger's seat. Stan’s mouth hung open.

   “Bill, what the fuck are you doing?” Bill hadn’t heard his voice crack like that since they were freshmen.   
   “J-j-j-j…” Stan stared at him with his eyebrows raised for several seconds more than they could afford. “Just drive!”   
   “Bill, I can’t drive!”   
   “What?”   
   “It was Driver’s Ed or Environmental Science, Bill! I can only take so many electives!”   
   “Jesus Christ, just buh-book it!”

   It wasn’t until the clerk and a security guard came sprinting out of the shop that Stan slammed on the accelerator. Bill threw it into drive just in time, narrowly avoiding getting rear-ended by a dumpster, and they sped off. 

   It was not until then that Bill fully realized the appropriateness of Rusty’s name. At that moment, he was twelve years old, weaving between pickup trucks and Cadillacs alike in the busiest intersection of Derry. He rode Silver with his hands off the breaks and his feet off the pedals, unafraid of impending death. The honking of horns barely reached his ears. Heart racing, Bill flew.

   Bill gripped the seat until his knuckles went white and clenched his jaw till it went numb, distantly aware of Stan screaming.

   It was mid-afternoon on a clear summer day, and for the first time since she’d been Bill’s, Rusty got a scratch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter IV - Last Time  
> In which Stan doesn’t remember, and Bill remembers too much.


	4. IV - Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan doesn't remember, and Bill remembers too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning for panic attacks and underage drinking. Please stay safe and comfy!

 If Bill had ever in his life wanted to know what it was like to be a moving bullet, he would now be satisfied.

Stan’s screams had silenced, reminding Bill of how, in movies, you couldn’t hear each other at supersonic speeds. They blew through near-empty intersections, stop signs, and one railroad track that nearly sent the two of them flying out of the windshield. Part of Bill knew he should be doing something to help.  _Grab the wheel, dumbass!_ his brain shouted.  _Your hands don’t stutter, do they? Take the wheel, shift into a lower drive, buckle your seat for God’s sake!_ But all he could do was grip tears into the cloth seat while his life, his car, and most importantly  _Stan’s_  life, lay in the hands of the screaming, sleep-deprived anxiety case behind the wheel.

   They pulled into a winding mountain road, and that was when Bill knew they were going to crash. Sure enough, for a moment more terrifying than pedaling through Main Street on Silver, the car teetered on the edge of the road, leaning towards the yawning canyon below them. Snapping to his senses, Bill grabbed the wheel at the last second, yanking them out of danger. Rusty’s side scraped against the road’s fence with a long, dull scratch.

 _“BRAKE!”_  he finally screamed.  _“FOR F-F-FUCK’S SAKE, BRAKE!”_

   Somehow, a truck stop happened by to their right. It was as deserted as the town had been. Eyes alarmingly squeezed shut, Stan veered into the truck stop, got right up to an inch away from the fence, and…

   He braked.

   Bill set the parking brake and stared outward.

   His first instinct was to check Stan, so he did. Good thing, too, because Stan looked like shit. While he’d stopped screaming, his eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets and fly around the car. He was breathing hard. Really hard–more like gasping. Whistling a bit. More like… what was that word Eddie had taught him…

   Hyperventilating. Stan was having a breakdown.

   “Sh-sh-hit!”

   Fuck. Shit. What was he supposed to do? What did he do when Eddie had these? He reached, hesitant around Stanley’s shoulders, but Stan only jerked away and shook harder. His face went nearly blue at this point, tears running down it.  _This has been saving itself all week,_  his brain accused,  _and you didn’t do shit._

   “Um. U-uh…”

   Bill could only stare dumbly, then, as Stan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

   He was out for maybe four seconds, but it felt like hours before Bill got it in him to slap Stan right across the face.

_“STANLEY!”_

_Oh God, why did you do that, you fucking idiot? You broke him. His airway’s cut off and his brain’s going to shut down any second, and you’re going to be sitting in a near-broken car with your best friend’s corpse in the other seat, and you’re going to fucking die here–_

   Stan came to with a shuddering gasp. It was a second of stunned silence before he managed a breath. Then another. Then he broke down in violent sobs.

   “Oh my God.” Bill’s mouth hung open. “O-hoh my God.”

   Stan looked at Bill like he was seeing him for the first time, and needed to vomit. He turned toward the door, and for a second Bill thought he was. He finally spoke.

   “Don’t look at me…” It came out a hoarse whisper. Bill expected to hear betrayal in his voice, or anger. Instead, it cracked with guilt and shame. “Just… don’t.” Bill didn’t.

   A few minutes slipped by before Stan said unprompted: “I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”

   Stanley’s hands shook like they did after having one too many cups of gas-station coffee, which Bill had seen more than once that week. Bill thought he didn’t have the focus or the heart to spit out that they both knew that wasn’t true.   
Stan released one more shuddering breath and wrapped himself tighter in the purple-blue scarf he’d left home in. The speckled midnight yarn had a golden film over it from the light of the setting sun. Despite their speed and panic, Stan had managed a spectacular parking job–Rusty sat on an empty truck-stop, overlooking the mountains.  
   “You’re alright now, Stanny.”

   His own voice surprised him. Apparently, it surprised Stan too, who let out a breathless chuckle. Maybe he’d ought to call him that more often, because Stan melted into the seat.

   “Don’t call me that.” ( _“Thank you.”_ )

   “W-who am I–Ruh-Richie?” Bill replied. ( _“You’re welcome”_ ).

   He draped an arm over Stan’s shoulder, and he didn’t pull away. They might have sat there for twenty, thirty minutes–long enough for a sunset–before Bill remembered his “plan,” and the two cases of beer. They were probably shaken up to burst. He offered.

   “I am not drinking with you,” said Stan, but his eyes said otherwise. They flicked to Bill, then to the rearview mirror. A certain nervousness crossed his face, but not the blind panic from before. It was a sweaty, lovesick kind of nervousness. One Bill was more than familiar with.

   “Remember what happened last time?”

* * *

   Bill remembered last time. Stan did not.

   What Stan remembered was that a few months back, Beverly had brought a stolen bottle of vodka into movie night.

   He had been apprehensive, to say the least. Of course he egged on Richie and Bev–that was his job, for Christ’s sake–but when Richie stepped up and challenged him, all that anxiety was shoved straight down his throat. It landed in his stomach with a competitive  _plop._

   “Stanley’s talk is rich, but he wouldn’t last two shots of this shit. I bet you two weeks’ lunch money you’ll hurl before me.”

   _Plop._

   Bev hollered while Eddie poured shots into the shitty, red, solo-cup-versions of shot glasses they had. He sported a Cheshire grin. Unlike all the Losers but Mike, Stan had never drunk before and had no idea what he was signing up for. When he glanced over, Richie was grinning too.

   He remembered the surprising burn. How he almost spewed the shot all over himself straight off. But then he forced it down, then another. At some point, he started moving faster than Richie. He was flying. Then he was–then he was…

   Then they ran out of vodka.

   What Stan remembered was feeling sick and out-of-control in a spinning room. He remembered his shirt coming untucked and his hair falling in his face, sweaty limbs on sticky leather, how the TV had been too bright and too loud all of a sudden, how the monsters from  _Ghostbusters!_  seemed to pop out of the screen and corner him. He remembered how he’d almost cried–maybe he had. He’d laughed, too, giggling almost uncontrollably at everything. He thought maybe Richie had been poking fun at him. But he also remembered how all that went away with someone’s touch. His head had fallen in someone’s lap, and they’d whispered to him, tucking in his shirt, wiping his face, and giving him sips of water. He’d fallen asleep there, he guessed, and woken with not-too-bad of a headache.

   Bill remembered the kiss.

   Bill recalled Stan beating Richie by a mile, though Richie and Bev claimed that a real winner couldn’t be decided unless someone hurled (“Y’may as well take one for the team, Staniel,” Richie had said). Regardless, without knowing his limits, Stan far surpassed them. If Richie was half as buzzed as Stan, it didn’t show.

   Bill remembered one point during which he’d been struck with terror that his parents would walk in, and find him with his most trusted and logical friend, held in his arms like a toddler. Stan was flying, draping himself over Bill, and giggling uncontrollably at every one of Richie’s jokes (most of which he was the butt of).

   As movie night went on, Eddie put on  _Ghostbusters!_  and settled the group down. Then Stan burst into tears over the cheesy monsters, and Mike had to dive across the room to switch it to _Sixteen Candles_. That turned out a little better, bubbly (obnoxious) laughter replacing frightened sobs. It was just like babysitting.

    _Cute,_  he thought, then chased that thought from his head.

   “Cute,” Stan said, then grinned up at him. His head rested in Bill’s lap, with his legs sprawled across Beverly, Mike, and Ben, and one sock resting on the top of Richie’s head from where he sat at the foot of the couch. Richie didn’t seem to mind and Stan didn’t seem to notice.

   “Wh-what?” Bill whispered. On the screen was a close up of a kid looking not unlike Richie, staring open-mouthed at Molly Ringwald’s underwear.

   “Cute! You’re cute.” Stan made the declaration like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He spoke loud enough to make Beverly snort and Eddie shush them.

   Then, if Bill had had any doubts of Stan being wasted out of his mind, he would have been proven wrong.

   Stan grabbed the back of Bill’s neck and mashed his face against his own.

   It hadn’t been much of a kiss, that much was granted. His face tasted like a toothbrush soaked in vodka. Nonetheless, it sent the room into “ooh!”s, and “yowza!”’s, “eew!”’s, and “hey, now!”’s. Bill hardly managed to pry him off. His heart raced, but it wasn’t real. Stan was drunk–wasted out of his mind for the first shitty time ever. It didn’t count–not that he wanted it to.

   Stan managed a loopy, self-satisfied grin, before deciding to pass out. Right on Bill’s lap. Asshole.  
   Bill ended up letting Mike take Stan to bed, too afraid that he might climb in with him.

   Bill had stayed sober that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter V - Time Again  
> In which criminal antics ensue.  
> Hey, check out [my Tumblr... Hee hee :~)](https://sapiosexualstanuris.tumblr.com)


	5. lol

sorry guys, i am just NOT feeling it for stenbrough anymore and wanted to clarify that there won't be any more updates since this has gotten a few bookmarks. i might adapt the first chapter or so into something else but idk yea alright have a good one

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter II - Stanley Uris Takes a Nap.  
> In which Bill takes a left turn, and he isn't alone.


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